brilliance.

This just in:

- This fabulous wine and coffee shop has tango dancing every Thursdays, and I think Bryan and I might attend tonight. We're becoming very involved in the dance, and have been dancing for... 14 weeks? Already? Huh. So we have. Feels as if we started yesterday, but we're learning ocho and ocho milongero and are easily the best in the class. The class of a whole wopping three couples.

- Today I travel up to my father's house to practice piano and bask in the sunlight. Huzzah.

- I think I am developing an eye infection.

That is all.

My classes are coming to conclusion rather abruptly; it seems as if my eyelashes had barely brushed my cheek but once to blink, and suddenly I’m completely finished with all classes but two. I have exempted myself from my race and gender final as well as my art history final by averaging over a ninety-six on my previous exams, and my honors composition class hasn’t a final or concluding activity, thank god. The two finals that I do have to take are in my History of Aviation class and my American History class, unfortunately, so I will have to commit myself to refraining from mixing up dates and facts. I’m not too worried about either final, however, and I have the beginning of next week to prepare for both, so the pressure one would normally expect from finals week is completely nonexistent.

I don’t mourn the absence of absolute bedlam in my last week at this university, but this chapter of my life is coming to a close so silently and composedly that I don’t quite know what to think. Even though this period of my life is characterized by several adjustments and changes- changing universities and beginning anew at the DAAP program, moving thirty minutes northward into my father’s new house and finding a new job accordingly- the lack of disruption in my life is unsettling. Though I have not yet left northern Kentucky, the comfort provided by the knowledge of the visual features of the town has already begun to subside as if high tide has come and now must go, and the snug complacency that once washed over me is creeping back to its mother ocean and the individuals chosen to enjoy it. My father’s house is empty and therefore different, and the thrill of having my own space is overwhelmed by the calloused touch of a couch that is never sat on and the absence of the noises of my father’s tinkering in the basement. I am a creature of comfort, but my emotional ties are proving more flexible that I thought them to be. I can always visit past places and therefore must not mourn transition; Schneider’s Ice cream parlor will still be in Bellevue even though I am not. It will not be the same, of course, as it once was, but that is the nature of change and progression. We would be foolish to cling forever to certain periods of our lives, for all moments in time were born simply to change and define us and to then end.

The next time someone offers you a free, delicious slab of prime rib when you're working, just say no.

cow + labor = bad.

Today found me without my car and with nothing to do, nothing, that is, but laundry, dishes, and organizing. I wish to be a minimalist, and despite my desire and relative success, I still find myself with one small box of things that I'll never use yet can't bear to throw away. I suppose the amount of useless treasure which to myself is espoused is laudable, if compared to the houses and rooms full of junk that most people claim, as is the nature of these ineradicable objects: books and textbooks, school supplies, and my sentimental memorabilia whose number I regulate most severely, yet guilt pounds through my mind unmercifully every time a glance is timidly thrown towards the corner in which this small box resides. The letters and bits of sentiment are seldom read but can never be thrown away, much like my books. The eighteenth-century pornography literature that I was required to buy for my analysis of pornography class are books that the bookstore will not buy back, and I would feel like a lecherous smut peddler if I distastefully gave them to goodwill. Unfortunately, it is a matter of principle, as is every other issue that speckles my livelihood: I simply cannot bring myself to throw away books, regardless of their nature, and I refuse to sell back a $135 calculus textbook for thirteen dollars, even if it is somewhat pretentious and pointless to keep it. And pretentious it truly is; I have every intention of putting that textbook on my bookcase, though I'll never, ever use it, because I would like to fancy myself as the type of individual in need of a good calculus book, though nothing could be so indubitably farther from the truth. And though I am a passionate reader, I keep the books that I did not enjoy, and I even keep the books that I absolutely loathed so that the occasional visitor to my abode might be bamboozled into thinking that I'm well-rounded. The reasons for my keeping these items is almost as shameful as the fact that I stubbornly keep them.

With the exception of the school supplies, whose potential use is infinitely more promising than any other of the box's inhabitants, I know I will never open the box. It will slowly collect dust and the unequivocal, stale fragrance of old age as it sits and sits and sits with nothing to do and no service to provide. I will move from one city to the next and curse under my breath as I heave it along, and allot it precious closet space in various tiny apartments. To my nature I will stay true; simple, minimal furniture will adorn my future spaces, and my ability to avoid the purchase of unpurposed items will not wane, but the one manifestation of my fault will always be that wretched box. Its contrary, inescapable nature will be the filmy, pale blue eye of my existence, and instead of a heart beneath my floorboards I shall forever have a cardboard coffer in my closet.

Rob comes home from his mission on May 6th and today I bought my ticket to go greet him. Gone is the excitement, or even the pleasure of visiting Salt Lake; enough time has passed to rob the city of the comfort of familiarity it once provided me. For some time after I had come to a new point of view the city was still comfortable; notable difference of opinion and belief surged through the faces of the city, the buses, and the buildings, but the sidewalks and front lawns and the dry air that fell around me still felt like home. Now gone is the domicile, I know, and gone is the placation of once-friendly paths and commonplace gathering places. There is nothing but my family and Elisse, and everything else with be horribly awkward. This prophecy swelled in my stomach as I purchased the ticket, knowing all too well that come May eleventh or so I'll be cursing myself for deciding to stay eight days, but, in my traditional strategy for dealing with family, I've picked blind optimism over realistic precision. That is not to say, however, that relations have not improved; mum and I are on good terms, regardless of the completely uncalled for, malicious message she left for dad after we forgot to make Ricky go to church the week he stayed here. I'm also excited to see Rob again, even though he's apparently coming home a hyper-conservative Bush fanatic. To each his own, I say, and as long as mutual respect is present I won't point out how profoundly thick-witted you have to be to support bushie right now. Our president is going to need much a bigger threat than “terrorism” to scare me into supporting him. Sorry, mates.

Elisse will be there, thankfully, to steal me away to poetry readings and fantastically caffeinated coffee shops when the pressure of the crazy mormons is too much to bear. I think I will survive my eight days, seven nights in the unworldly oddity that is Salt Lake City.

Today, as well as purchase a ticket, I confirmed my acceptance to the UC. I have to admit: I'm pretty proud of myself and incalculably excited. The DAAP program is second in the nation for industrial design, and I will emerge an over-educated, under-paid ketchup bottle designer. I also get to save all summer for a beautiful ibook, which, though I am a PC girl, is a fun thing nonetheless. Huzzah.

By the way, Nepal became a democracy today. They probably figured that they might as well give in before bushie decides to “liberate” them. I must dash now, darlings, but I will write later. The weather here is fine and the workless weekend awaits me. Cheers

I'm suffering through an art history paper, in which I simply have to describe a piece of artwork and somehow wrangle out four pages. I kid you not, I just wrote this:

"The shape of the pot is that of an amphora, the majority of the painting is done where the width is the widest"....

My dignity has just been shot to hell, then trampled on by obese demons before being set on fire. They're pissing on the smouldering ashes as we speak.

This is L.A Roberts' "Yosemite Valley", and sadly is the only picture of this painting I could find. Know, dear readers, that this does no justice whatsoever to the original work; the color is muted and the idiot photographer cut off half the painting. I wanted a demonstration of his work, however, so I will post it regardless.

Works of Eyvind Earle, courtesy of gallery21.com

The Cincinnati Art Museum is something of a solace to me; I frequent the place weekly and have my favorite rooms and paintings that I visit regularly. My favorites, by far, are the two paintings done by the mysterious L.A Roberts. Despite exhausting research attempts, no one knows who he was, male or female, from where she or he came, or what training the artist had, if any at all. All we have of L.A Roberts is two large, implausibly beautiful landscapes painted in bright, almost cartoonish colors and idealized shapes that have captured my heart and imagination completely.

Thanks to the site Cherry Coloured I stumbled upon the work of Eyvind Earle, and was immediately reminded of my darling L.A Roberts. The vibrance of the pieces, and the cartoonish, dreamy aura of the world he paints has left me in awe. I love this style of painting: the color, the shapes, the texture. I know it's a brash, inconsiderate action to post pictures of his paintings directly on my blog, but I can't resist. Forgive me, Eyvind!

The city around me has started to bloom and push forward, and the contours of the streets and boundaries are obscured and changed into something else by the lively growth of greens and all shades of red. The dirt of Bellevue and her Kentucky inhabitants is now overwhelmed by the acres of luscious grass and full, robust trees. Winter in Cincinnati bears no resemblance to the Cincinnati spring offers to me; once cold months have loosened their grip on the city it becomes all too familiar; the new scenery that greets me, the smell of damp life and sweet grass, as well as the well-known musty scent of concrete walls cooling down after hours of baking in the sun transform this city into an old friend, a well-worn sweater, an inviting, comfortable, familiar place that can truly be called home. The humidity is so thick that I could slice through it and serve it on a platter, and my pores have swelled with a heat rash that covers my body. Though my unsettled skin has yet to adjust to the change, my mind and spirit is relieved and overjoyed. I am a child of the sun and of the moist grass beneath it, my shoulders and feet are meant to be bare and littered with the sparse, salty scent of sweat. I feel most comfortable sprawled out in the back yard of a stranger.

It appears that my immune system skipped work today to go marching with all the others for immigrant rights, because I feel like shit. I don't think I'll say anything to my immune system, however, because I support immigrant rights, oppose the posed legislation the marchers are trying to fight, and believe that activism is a necessity. I feel wretched, and can now sympathize with all the anti-marchers that had to wait an extra 4 hours to get an oil change or some such service, but all in all I am proud of my immune system, and wish it the best of luck. I suppose a runny nose, sore throat, and body aches are a small price to pay. Wave that Norwegian flag high, my friend.

Ricky comes today, and I couldn't be more thrilled. He's sicker than I am, however, with a nasty bout of strep throat. It will be an interesting visit, what with all the belligerent illnesses running rampant about the family, but I am glad to see him all the same, even if it will involve nursing him back to health the entire visit.

By the way... I found out today that I was accepted into the University of Cincinnati's Industrial Design program. Just thought I would let you know....

The sun shines brightly outside, though the wind is a bit nippy at times. If I sit still enough on a park bench or on the lawn, the sun beats down on me and warms me to the point of deception; I feel as if summer encircles me and it’s time again to visit Eden Park. The past couple of days have teased me so viciously, taunting me with a world lit up by the genial sky and grass that slowly grows greener and greener, but the moment I step outside the brisk air rejects my desperate attempts to fraternize and I am forced back indoors by my desire for placid comfort. From my living room window I examine the world outside of the little brick box of my father’s house, and I scowl at its pointless beguilement. I know better than to feel invited by the festive rays of that brutish, crude sun that refuses to lend ear to hospitality, propriety, or social pressures. If this were an epoch of decency the sun would swell with comfortable warmth, curl her hair, press her dress and invite me outside for cucumber sandwiches and gunpowder tea. Instead she mulls about outside in the most tasteless of manners, refusing to heat the world to sun-dress weather. I sit in front of my living room window and scowl a self righteous, pious scowl. Despite the many grievances the sun has provided me, I’ve decided against spreading ignominious rumors about her at the beauty parlor involving the pool boy and a hair barrette. Cucumber sandwiches or not, my mother raised me right.

All is well, darlings, and nothing too eventful has happened. Bryan and I drove down to Durham, North Carolina last weekend and the trip went well. I met his friends whom had come from all over the country to celebrate another friend's birthday, and I didn't even stop loving him when he and his old band mates cleared out the dining room, set up their amps, and hopped about the room while playing their old music drunkenly, happily, and out of tune. The crowd was an eclectic collection of old college friends who had all turned into architects, engineers, and designers, with the exception of one pizza-delivery man. Seeing that I hope to go into design it suffices to say that the connections established are priceless. Free pizza, here I come.

My rejection letter from the UC still hasn't come. Bastards. How dare they draw out this annoying process. On the upside, it's warm and sunny outside, so now I can wait by the mailbox in a plastic lawn chair with endless amounts of class and refinement for my rejection letter. If only I had a wife-beater and a shotgun to complete the delicate ensemble.

I need to go grocery shopping now. Please don't take this as rejection, my bumpkins; if the choice is between food and you, you can't really expect me to keep on writing. There are calories that need consumin', after all.

How? How, I ask you? In the name of camisoles, brie, and all else that is holy, how? How has the dog's hair, who has never, ever been in my car, become threaded through the interior of my automobile? How, I ask you? How?